Poe's Nightmares

The Whisperering Heads, A Tale Of The Macarbe

Why were only the heads taken? What message was this malevolent killer trying to send? What possible deranged motive could underlie such vicious blood-letting?

The overworked coroner sighed and returned to his desk. The weight of this case troubled him greatly but he was determined to make progress tonight. Hidden in the locked bottom drawer was the one balm for mortality's strain - a small vial of opium dissolved into a sweet sherry wine. Dr Hargrave slipped off his coat, cravat and shoes, settling into his armchair as he took several long draws from the vial. Almost immediately his world blurred into serene, disconnected calm. Softly refracted halos of light shimmered around the lamps and candle stands. His mind drifted through realms of vivid imagination, as fantastical creatures and vaporous ghosts emerged from the shadows. 

Amidst the comforting embrace of his elixir, Dr Hargrave's gaze settled on the severed heads, as he contemplated them with a new sense of scientific inquisitiveness. The macabre remnants possessed tragic dignity despite the violence of their endings. Reclining on their pedestals, dark hair fanned around pale, angelic faces that seemed to float ethereally in the misty gloom.

"Dr. Hargrave..."

A voice seemed to whisper through the fog enshrouding his mind, soft as a lover's caress yet cold as the grave. Dr Hargrave started violently, the vial slipping through his fingers onto the bearskin rug. Heart racing, he peered through the gloom, unsure if reality or fantasy had produced that faint utterance.

"Dr. Hargrave..."

The voice came again, more insistent but no less spectral - an eerie susurration that raised gooseflesh along his arms. This time, Dr Hargrave thought he caught a slight movement from the corner of his vision. With a growing sense of unease, he turned slowly to the dissection slabs.

Impossibly, both heads were now gazing right at him, clouded eyes glittering in the darkness. The carefully sewn eyelids had opened, somehow, to reveal cold orbs that held his heart in an icy, petrifying grip.

"Who goes there?" Dr Hargrave demanded, though his voice trembled with sudden dread.

"Do you not recognize us, doctor?" The first head spoke, her delicate mouth unmoving yet undoubtedly the origin of the whispered words. A ghostly draft stirred her chestnut tresses, sending them coiling softly around her neck and shoulders.

"This cannot be! Surely you are but inanimate matter," Dr Hargrave exclaimed faintly, though he could not pull his horrified stare away from the severed yet miraculously vital head.

"Oh, but in death we see all, doctor, and come to know the greatest of secrets..." the second head uttered in a chilling tone. Her small mouth remained motionless, though her eyes of glacial blue seemed to spear his very soul.

The room seemed to darken, the lamps dimming to a hellish red glow as though the light itself was being leeched away. Shadows sprang up around the two heads, wreathing around them until only their ghostly faces seemed to float in the darkness like pale lamps. Strange susurrations and spectral sounds filled the room - agonized moans, frantic muttering and tormented wails of the dead.

Heart hammering against his ribs, Dr Hargrave leaned forwards, fingers digging into the leather arms of his chair until the knuckles gleamed white. "The secrets of what, tell me! Of death? Of murder?" His voice was a rasp of unfettered fear and morbid anticipation.

“The one you seek...” the first head whispered sibilantly. “The one whose hands ended our mortal lives... He walks amongst you shrouded in righteous skin, but comes to us at night to wallow in his feasts of depravity..."

Dr Hargrave gasped, sweat beading his brows despite the deathly chill pervading his chamber. "The murderer! Tell me, reveal to me his identity!" He was on his feet now, robe swirling as he stepped toward the ebony plinths bearing the two disembodied ladies.